The Devils in My Head When You're in My Bed
by Wilted Words
Summary: Sinning is such sweet sorrow, especially for the good doctor. Slash, Watson/Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Don't Own.**

**The Devils in My Head When You're in My Bed**

**CH.1**

Adultery has always been deplorable to the good doctor, but in light of recent events, he finds himself seemingly a hypocrite. Always justified in his belief that he is an honest, loyal, and above all else, faithful man; now, he can't help the way his body betrays the morals of his mind, he feels himself falling apart around the edges of his pristine ethical structure. He is a happily married man, for god's sake! His lovely wife, full of trusting innocence and bountiful beauty, he's ruined that; taken the sanctity of their marriage and spat upon its foundations, he's sickened with his straying thoughts of another.

Watson leans back heavily in his office chair, thoroughly exhausted, a long week at the clinic. The edges of dawn streaming in through his window, the busy roads on London still whirling around him, the sound of horse's hooves clopping along, the business professionals making their way off to work, and the despicable still trying their craft at pick-pocketing. Watson, just leans back against the leather of his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb; he's really in deep this time, his mind a jumble of thoughts, none easily decipherable.

The doctor pushed himself up from his chair and makes the climb up the stairs to his bedroom, where his lovely wife is sleeping, she looks heavenly; she is most unquestionably an angel. Watson shrugs off his coat and unbuttons his vest and his white dress shirt. He strips off his trousers as well, leaving his shorts on, and throws on a nightshirt, climbing into bed with his wife. He makes sure to jostle the bed as little as possible; he can't stand to be met with her guiltless smile when his thoughts were so vile. He shuffles over as far to the side as he can; his heart a thunder. He manages a glance over in his wife's direction; she is at peace in sleep with no worries clouding her countenance. The doctor's disgusted with himself, how could he think such things, when he had his wife to come home too?

He turns on his side, facing away from Mary, his beloved wife, his supposed everything; he just can't stand the depravity he has fallen into. Sleep does not come for the doctor; he just lies in bed, wishing he was with another. His mind racing his pulse to high to be considered safe, sweat forming along his brow and perfectly groomed mustache; he soon gives up on notions of sleep, though it would only have been for a couple of hours, and descends the stairs to the dining room, grabbing the paper on his way, takes a seat and begins to occupy is mind with trivial matters, waiting for the arrival of his landlady and his morning cup of coffee; it comes shortly along with Mary. Watson's insides constrict and he feels his lungs collapse, and he's reduced to a wheezing mess, Mary seems to be ignorant to his plight; thank god for small miracles.

She sits down most elegantly in her chair across from her husband, her face alight with genial exuberance, and all Watson can think is: ignorant. He does a full bodily glance over her flawless form, and can't find why he would stray from her trust; he figures his mind has finally left him. Mary notices the stare and returns a quite look in his direction, a petite smile highlighted across her lips. Watson just gives a half-hearted upturn of his lips in return, Mary just takes her breakfast gratefully and lets Watson return to his reading. The morning remains quite, no one speaking, one out of dread and the other out of respect. It seems perfectly normal, everything in its place, everyone in their place, but the doctor knows better, it's just a matter of time before this ghastly nightmare comes collapsing down on top of them.

Watson sets his paper down and excuses himself; Mary just nods her head, Watson making his way back to their room to dress for work. He grabs a clean, crisp white shirt, a nice waistcoat, a pair of khakis, and an understated tie to round off his ensemble. He pads back down to the entrance hall, grabs his coat and medical bag and starts his way outside to hail a cab to his practice, before he can escape his home, Mary grabs his arms. Her eyes glistening in the light, a smile playing on the edges of her mouth, she brings both hands up to cup his face, Watson lets his features fall into a cool mask of acceptance, while inside he's breaking apart, churning flames in his chest, mind wild. Mary just looks on adoringly, and Watson knows when things come to light, they will absolutely destroy this magnificent woman, and he will have no one to blame besides himself, and his disobedient thoughts.

"Have a good day my dear," Mary brings her lips to meet Watson's in a kiss so soft and full of love, Watson feels his eyes prickle with unshed tears, "will you be home in time for dinner? I know the practice has been keeping you extra busy, along with Mr. Holmes." Watson is positive, his complexion is paper white at the mention of his friend's name, Mary just steps back, but before she has time to inquire further, Watson pulls himself back together; steps back up to his wife, because that is what he is expected to do, and kisses her forehead, in an insincere display of affection.

"I will be most late tonight my dear, a full day of appointments," he holds Mary away at a distance by her shoulders and gives her a dazzling look, and she's sated. Taking his coat off the rack and his bag from beside the door, he's off and able to breathe again. The London air holds a slight chill that serves to refresh the doctor; he awaits the attention and arrival of a hansom to carry him off to his practice.

The ride over is quite and calm, but Watson is thoroughly unnerved by his desire to be away from Mary, being with her makes him ill, and his mind race. The cab pulls up alongside the building that holds the doctor's practice; he gets out and pays the driver, and is on his way. The day passes by in a string of hacking coughs, runny noses, and watery eyes; Watson diagnoses his patience in a monotonous drone of 'make sure to drink lots of fluids,' 'make sure to cover up, so you don't catch a chill while suffering under a cold,' and 'take this, it will help relieve you of most of your ailments'. By the start of dusk, the good doctor is running on autopilot, ready to leave, but still not ready to face his wife; barely making it through the tense hour in the morning.

Watson decides to go to the one place that can drown out all his problems, but also the place that has caused most to begin with, he would go see Holmes. The thought of just being back inside his old digs, makes Watson's heart rate accelerate, his breathing quicken, and a low burning in his groin, he's without a doubt in deep with this one. Watson can't help to realize that the feelings home invokes are similar to what Mary brings out in him, but for opposite reasons, Mary makes his heart quicken in fear, his body heat up in panic, and his breathing catch in terrified adrenaline. Holmes makes Watson's body respond with joy, desire, and sexual tension, it's most intoxicating to just be around the detective, he feels high, like he's floating, weightless, and he revels in it. Unfortunately Holmes does not seem to get the same high when around the doctor, most unsatisfying.

Watson arrives at the door of Baker Street and is struck with indecision. His heart telling him to go in, his head telling him to turn tail and run, grab a cab back over to his residence, back to his wife, to Mary. He immediately enters the flat with the thought of returning back to his wife, he climbs the seventeen stairs up to the sitting room, finding the door ajar. Watson pushes the door open further with the bottom of his cane, and makes his way inside, his heart hammering in his chest, the bones going to give way any moment, he can feel it.

The surly detective is reclined in his chair, hair disheveled, pipe between his chapped lips, eyes alive with mischief and mirth, Watson feels his heart stop, and coughs on a lungful of air, gaining the detectives intense gaze. Upon the acknowledgement from the detective, Watson smiles at his friend and steps over to him, seating himself in his (old) chair. The detective just eyes his dear doctor, dissecting and analyzing. Watson just shrugs out of his coat, hangs it over the back of his chair, and lays his cane down beside him, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt.

"My dear Watson, what a surprise, may I inquire to your most welcomed visit?" The detective's eyes shine in the dim lighting, as the curtains were drawn shut, and just a sliver of light penetrating the room, the fire a glowing ember, but Watson can still see the heat in their depths.

"I figured that I would stop by and make sure you haven't completely destroyed the flat in my absences. I also wanted to make sure that you have been taking care of your person," Watson stated with a wave of his hand, Holmes just chews on the end of his pipe, thoroughly disbelieving of the doctor's excuses.

"Hmmm, see I assumed it was because you were trying to evade your lovely wife," Watson tenses, Holmes beams, "seems that I have assumed correctly then my dear Watson." Watson turns to face Holmes fully and gives him a most venomous sneer.

"Don't bring Mary into this. You also assume wrong, I can't come around and see a friend?" Watson smoothes his countenance back to one of blank indifference, "may I be so bold to say you do not want my presence in your room?" Watson made a show of beginning to stand. Holmes immediately darts up from his chair and over to Watson's, clutching the arms of the chair, effectively pinning Watson to his seat.

"No, my dear doctor, and please forgive my rudimentary accusations, it was out of line. I do thoroughly enjoy your presence at Baker Street," eyes locking with the doctors, then drifting up towards the door, "better than nanny's obtuse companionship." Holmes returning his attention fully to the doctor, a mischievous grin spreading across his lips, Watson returns the look, positively elated by Holmes upfront response. Holmes loosens his hold on the chair and stands fully in front of his friend, "care for a glass of brandy, old boy?" Watson nods his head in acquiescence.

They drink in companionable silence, Watson reveling in his shared time with his friend, though feeling a sad pain in his chest, unable to confront Holmes on his most depraved feelings. He just concedes to his small, stolen glances of the detective, sipping his drink, staring into the fire. Holmes aware of his friend's behavior lets the glances go, till he can take the treatment no longer.

"Watson, do I have something on my face?" He catches the doctors blue gaze with his dark one. Watson swallows heavily, and just shakes his head in repudiation. Holmes hums to himself, seemingly a response to Watson's quite reply. "Then why old boy, are you staring?" Watson, refuses to dignify that question with an answer, and remains steadfastly mute. Holmes huffs in irritation, getting up to refill his glass.

Watson stands from his chair, grabbing his coat from around the chair, and his cane from the floor, ready to make a hasty departure, escape the madness and brain dizzying mess that is Sherlock Holmes. Holmes rounds on him suddenly, drink forgotten, grabbing Watson by his shoulders, holding him stalwartly still, glaring down at him.

"Now, please be forth right with me Watson, something is deeply troubling you," Holmes holds up his hand at Watson's start at refusal, "and please don't insult my intelligence by stating otherwise, there is something weighing on your conscious. You can tell me, because it is obviously something that you cannot confide in with your _wife_," if there is more force behind Holmes' last word, Watson resolutely ignores it, his senses fuzzy with the feel of Holmes' hands on his shoulders, the wisp of his breath over the doctor's lips, and his pleadingly dark eyes staring into the doctor's own.

Watson's reply is just a ghost of a whisper, "my feelings are out of sorts, I feel deplorable in my wayward thoughts. I have been unconsciously unfaithful to Mary, thinking of another," Watson's vision blurs and he feels his cheeks warm, the detective just appears taken aback, not expecting a truthful statement from the doctor, use to his stubborn dismissals.

Watson can feel his body acting on its own volition and his hands reaching forward to grasp a hold of the detective's unruly hair, yanking slightly, making Holmes issue a tiny hiss. Watson without further thought leans forward and kisses Holmes squarely on the lips, damn his morals.

**TBC **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Did I mention that the characters in this story are a little OOC? (to me at least)**

**Disclaimer: Don't own.**

**The Devils in My Head When You're in My Bed**

**CH.2**

Nothing about their exchange is innocent or gentle, it's ruff and vulgar; they're in heaven, or as close to it as two men in their situation can get, at least from Watson's perspective. Their tongues battle against one another, creating a heady staccato rhythm that has both men dizzy with lust. Watson's hand pulls at the detective's hair again, eliciting another guttural moan, gaining the upper hand on the intoxicated detective. Not one to be out done, Holmes pushes Watson back against the door to the sitting room, reaching around with one hand to effectively lock the room away from any unwanted interruptions, god forbid.

Watson lets a low growl escape his lips, between their heated kissing; he tries to push against the detective to switch their positions, Holmes just pushes his front more firmly against Watson's. The action only brings their clothed groins together in a delirious rush of friction and heat, Watson throws his head back against the door, a silent exclamation on his red swollen lips; the detective fairs no better, resting his head on the doctor's shoulder, biting his lip in an attempt to stay silent. Both men leaning heavily on the door for support, their legs suddenly weak and trembling; Holmes a man of action starts a slow rutting against Watson, earning hoarse moans and whimpers to glide from the doctor's throat. Holmes lifts his head from Watson's shoulder, to gaze into the dark blue of the doctor's lust ridden eyes, Watson can only look back, breath coming out in short, incoherent pants, that waft over the detectives lips.

Watson brings his hands up to the Holmes' shoulders to try and push the detective back against the ruff wood of the door, wanting the higher ground; Holmes is having none of it. The detective grabs hold of Watson's hands by his wrists and brings them up over the doctor's head, leaving the doctor at the detective's mercy, and Holmes is not in a mood for leniency. Watson feels the pressure in his groin slowly building as the detective speeds up the thrusting of his hips, pushing harder and faster against Watson's straining need, pushing against the fabric of his trousers. Watson can hear the string of exclamations leaving his mouth before he can coherently stop them; the words only spur the delirious detective on, till Holmes is resting his head against the door, panting and moaning in Watson's ear; the breath of air sending shivers down Watson's spine.

"Holmes," it's only a ghost of breath from between Watson's parted lips, but it's enough to send the detective over the edge, clutching Watson's wrist tighter, pushing against him harder, and biting down on Watson's shoulder, to try and stifle the low groan that emits from the detective's chest. Holmes climax sends the doctor reeling and to his release in close succession with the detective's, both men sated and invigorated all at once.

Watson is the first to fully return to reality, his mind washing back ashore to the aftermath of his and Holmes' situation, it has him shoving the detective full bodily off him, Holmes staggering, trying to get his bearings back. Watson lowers his arms back to his sides, the look of a lost man stirring in his blue depths; Holmes can only share the good doctor's sentiments through his own dark gaze.

"Watson I-I," Holmes stutters, unable to find the right words, his lack of articulation only making Watson give a vicious bark of laughter. Holmes blinks, caught off guard by the sound, Watson pushes himself away from the door, glaring daggers at Holmes; the detective just watches his friend's approach with weary eyes, till Watson is standing in front of Holmes, his posture rigid and tense.

"Holmes, old boy, we have just damned ourselves," Watson converses in a hushed tone, the detective still unable to find his voice, stays silent, "do you understand the gravity of this situation Holmes? The vulgarity, the depravity of what we have just succumbed to?" Watson hisses through his teeth, a harsh sound that makes Holmes recoil under its assault.

"Watson," finally regaining his melodic baritone back, Holmes continues, "I am the absolute last person you should be lecturing to about vulgarity and depravity, as that is the world to which my mind is forever wondering." The detective finishes deflated, all prior dominance whisked out of him like the breath of words issued from Watson's lips.

Watson steps back from his friend, his co-conspirator, his partner, a look of indignant shock plastered over his fine features. Holmes can only implore his friend through his sorrowful depths to understand, to know that he never meant to take it this far, to the point of losing each other. Watson sees, he feels, and he knows, boy does he know. Watson can only turn and leave grabbing his cane and coat that had once again taken residence on the floor in the frenzy of their meeting earlier, pulling the wool fabric tighter around his middle, to hide his most obvious sign of his pleasurable release. Holmes just stays where he stands, for he can't find a reason to stop his doctor, he hears the tap of Watson's shoes descend the seventeen stairs rapidly and the slam of the front door upon his exit. Then silence, devastatingly so.

Watson arrives home in a flourish of coat tails and trembling limbs, Mary is there to greet her husband, the ever doting wife. Watson is repulsed, he can't take the care she has to give, her cheeks lightly flushed with color and her light hair, falling in open curls around her shoulders; he wants to destroy the pretty picture she makes, to strip her down to a savage thing, to kill the innocence that resides in her. He feels his lips turn up in a cruel snarl, when he crashes his lips upon Mary's coy ones, it's the torrid contact that has Mary stumbling backwards and grabbing her chest and covering her mouth, looking upon her _dear_husband like a wild beast. To Watson that's what he feels like, an un-caged animal, he needs to be locked away, locked away till he can control his _unnatural _desires.

"Mary, please forgive my crudeness, I never meant to frighten you darling." He steps forward cautiously, reaching out a reassuring hand to his naive wife. She immediately falls against his chest and clutches the lapels of his coat and cries, she lets her husband rock her gently, whispering soothing words into her ear, apologizing; Watson is the only one who knows they're all lies, Mary relishes in them.

Watson walks his wife upstairs to their bedroom, he lays her gently down upon their bed, and looks at her, lying with her hair spread behind her head, pale skin, and light eyes; he notices the eyes are all wrong, the hair color to light, to fine, and the skin to delicate. He closes his eyes and takes a seat beside his wife on the bed, gently tracing his fingers up and down her bare forearms; he leans down and softly, oh so softly presses his lips against hers, Mary submitting completely to her husband. Watson moves so that he is lying above her, deepening the contact of their kiss, resting his body weight over his knees and forearms. He takes his time, trying not to think how she's too passive, lips to soft, and too quite; the silence is deafening in his ears.

Mary breaks the kiss first, looks upon Watson and smiles kindly up at him, "you must be exhausted from a long day at work, let us get ready for bed my darling," Watson can only nod, the false display of affection making his stomach ill, but he commits to them because that is what is expected of him. He heaves himself off the bed and turns his back to his wife and discards all his clothes, careful in hiding his ruined trousers, and pulls on a long nightshirt. Watson turns back around and strides back over to their bed, hurriedly situating himself on his side, making sure to face away from Mary, he can't look at her sleeping form, ever. Watson closes his eyes in an attempt to gain ground on the sleeping world, but his mind racing to fast to settle; he feels the bed dip, and Mary's hand running lovingly through his short hair. Watson is sure if he had eaten dinner, he would be vomiting it back up at the touch, he just shrugs his shoulders and moves his head further to the edge of his pillow, and Mary lets her hand fall away and they're sleeping, well Mary anyway.

Sleep eludes Watson for another night, the doctor knows that he should just get out of bed and go down to his study, go through some paperwork, at least be productive rather than lie around when he knows nothing will come of it. So Watson meticulously gets out of bed and tip toes down the stairs and collapses against his office chair, the leather cool, permeating through the thin clothe of his nightshirt. He grabs a stack of papers, old patient reports that need to be filed, looked over, but he can't think about anyone other than the misanthropic detective. He plants his elbows on his desk and clutches his hair with his fingers, curling and uncurling his fingers over his scalp; when the air becomes to stifling, the racing of his mind to much, the need to dire, Watson pads back up stairs and dresses again.

He makes sure to pick up his discarded coat from the bedroom floor, as he will need it on his journey out in the night, the weather draping a chill over the city. Watson takes a deep breath and looks back up the stair, to his dozing wife, and flees. He walks the whole way, it seems he's walking forever, but then forever never seems long enough, for he has arrived on the stairs of Baker Street once more. He raises his fist to rap against the solid wooden door, and dear Mrs. Hudson opens the door a minuscule inch to peer out into the dark, her robe wrapped tightly around her petite frame, eyes blurry with sleep.

"Dr. Watson, is that you?" She opens the door wider, ushering him inside, with his positive response, because who else could it be at this time of night (well morning now, as the clocks have already ticked past midnight, though that seems like a fortnight ago). Watson apologizes to the aging landlady and excuses himself up the stairs to the sitting room.

The door is shut, Watson takes another deep breath, remembering his awfully disastrous departure earlier, he gently turns the door knob; it's unlocked. He eases the door open, and sees the glow of a fire, and the smell of tobacco. Finding himself shaking he pushes the door open further and steps inside, Holmes is folded over himself on the settee, his eyes transfixed by the embers and sparks spitting from the fire. The doctor pads over towards his friend, the sound of his shoes against the floor drawing the detectives attention to the intrusion, a look of shock passes over his features, smoothed over to a look of anger, then soon replaced with blank indifference. Holmes pushes himself up, his robe billowing behind him; he meets Watson half way across the floor, and regards his friend with a cautious air.

"My dear Watson, I did not believe you would be returning back to Baker Street so soon, or ever for that matter. I presumed that our earlier encounter had most definitely-"

"Shut up Holmes," and with that the doctor once again grabs his friend's face with both hands, and brings their lips together, almost brutally so.

Holmes instantaneously allows Watson's tongue entrance to his mouth, their tongues meeting in a fury, Watson gently sucking Holmes' into his mouth, then alternating to gently biting the detective's lips, the actions only cause Holmes to groan. The detective clasps his hands on Watson's hips, slipping his fingers under the fabric of his shirt, thumb making lazy patterns against Watson's skin; Watson just sighs into their kiss.

Holmes lets the doctor stay the night, of course he lets him stay the night; the detective can never deny his doctor anything, especially not when his hand is palming him through his trousers.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you to all those who have reviewed, hopefully this chapter is just as well received as the others.**

**Disclaimer: Don't Own**

**The Devils in My Head When You're in My Bed**

**Ch.3**

Mary's worried, she's frightened, she's concerned, but most of all she's heartbroken. Her ever loving husband was gone upon her waking this morning, no note, nothing. She clutches her chest as she stares out into the street, quickly glancing over the men that pass by the window, hoping, praying it's her John; dear, sweet, doting John. Mary lets a tiny sigh escape her lips, her eyes fluttering at the thought of her husband, when the door is roughly thrust open, startling Mary from her reverie. She runs to the entrance hall to see Watson, tossing his coat onto its rack, muttering under his breath.

"John," she sighs, Watson turns to her, his eyes wide, scared. Mary furrows her brow, unaccustomed to that look, Watson quickly recovers.

"My darling," he tugs a smile onto his slightly puffy lips, "I am so immensely sorry for leaving you all alone this morning. I had an emergency, a patience had taken a turn for the worst; his wife called and said that I should rush right over." The doctor ducks his head, an attempt to appear dismayed by the unfortunate turn of events, Mary's convinced, "awful case of pneumonia." Watson leaves it at that, and heads to the bathroom to clean up; he can't have Mary smelling the distinctive brand of tobacco, which only a certain detective seems to be prone to smoking. Mary relaxes, she breathes, she sits; her John is home, she laughs at her silly notions of deception, her John is a good man. She smiles up the stairs that lead to the bathroom and shakes her head, she has no reason to worry over her husband, he's a doctor.

Watson grabs a wash cloth hanging near the vanity, wipes it over his face, and looks at the light shadow of stubble growing along his jaw. He lets his hand glide over the slightly ruff skin, thinking he needs a shave, lest he wants to look like a disheveled mess, like his friend. The thought of the detective brings a wiry grin to Watson's mouth, his lips still tingling from their heated kissing earlier. John lets his mind drift back to Baker Street, to the detective, to their encounter; it was lovely, it was detestable, and most of all it was wrong. Watson's lips turn downward in a disgusted frown; the doctor can't believe himself, his own actions, he drops the wet clothe on the vanity and looks himself in the eyes, unable to see the John Watson that use to be behind the blue irises.

There's a ruff tap on the door, John straightens himself up, tugs at the collar of his shirt brushes down the wrinkles in the front. He opens the door to Mary, his mind blank, his stomach churning, and all he can think is she's hovering, that it's suffocating him, that he needs to put some distance between them. He gives a little cough, and shuffles past Mary. Mary just follows her husband to their room, like the lap dog Watson never wanted, never desired in a wife; but did he ever desire a wife, honestly? Watson gives his head a shake, he can't be thinking like this with Mary around, he can't have her suspecting anything; she has to remain pliant to his wishes, to his touch.

Mary leans against the bedpost; Watson shrugs off his shirt, turns and sees her stare and advances upon his demure wife. Mary gives a shy smile, ducking her head, Watson pushes her chin up with his fingers, giving her a genuinely fake smile, making Mary's heart stutter; the doctor feels his heart stop. Watson, can't help the sickness that always overtakes his body and mind when he has to touch his wife, the way she just falls against his touches, the way she smiles up at him, the way she bats those gloriously long eyelashes at him, or the way that all these things fail to bring anything but abhorrence out of him. Watson leans his head forward, tilts Mary's chin up, and so very delicately presses his lips to her cheeks, then a small kiss to the corners of her mouth, then centers on her lips.

"John," it's a faint whisper, a puff of breath, "John, why do you smell like-" the landlady breaks the moment with a most timely interruption; Watson can only thank the lord.

"Sir, there is a police man at the door requesting your audience. I showed him into the parlor," Watson releases Mary's slight chin and gives the landlady a curt nod. Mary lets her body sag in dismay, loving every moment that she can spend in her husband's company, and relishing his blissful touches. Watson smiles down at her, trying to reassure her, even though it's all forged, their marriage and life, all artificial.

Watson grabs a clean shirt from his wardrobe, quickly buttoning it up on his decent towards the parlor room. He enters to see Lestrade standing rigid, waiting for his reprieve. Watson smiles apologetically at him.

"Lestrade, this is certainly unexpected," Watson replies, pleasant as ever.

"Well, I was sent here by Mr. Holmes request," Lestrade gives a deep sigh, obviously annoyed by the detective's childish haberdashery. "Mr. Holmes said he could not further his investigation any further without your assistance. So, he said that you had to be summoned." Lestrade gives another dramatic sigh, and Watson can't help but to notice Lestrade's rodent-like appearance becoming more prominent in his annoyance.

"Sounds like Holmes," Watson gives a snort of laughter, lips curling in the corners, "but why couldn't you just send Clarke? I know that you would be more help at the scene, you are the head of police." Watson's smile grows a little at Lestrade's dark look.

"Well, your _friend_ said that he had to make sure that the message was delivered by the least mentally inept member of the police force," Lestrade's eyes burn in rage, but his voice stays even, Watson internally praises Lestrade on his emotional restraint; Holmes is definitely not an easy man to work with, if you aren't Watson of course. Watson can only laugh, Lestrade can only seethe.

"So, how about we be on our way, best not keep Holmes waiting," Lestrade can only nod his head in assent, because boy does he know. Both men make their way to the door, Watson grabs his coat from the rack near the door, he never once looks back, never once sees his wife standing at the top of the stairs, never once notices her eyes clouding with tears, and he never sees the anger in her reticent depths.

Holmes is looming over the body, or what is remaining of the once human looking figure, now only a pile of internal organs and severed limbs. Holmes maneuvers around the body with deadly precision, pulling out his magnifying glass to look at the blood splatter here, and the type of serrated edges of the severed arms, or the configuration of the of the organs. The detective hums and stands back, his eyes darting around the crime scene, picking up evidence and storing what most would declare trivial in his forever expanding mind; synapses firing, messages being received, thoughts coming into a conglomerate of theories and solutions. This is when Watson and Lestrade arrive, Holmes looks over to his colleague, and sniffs, because that just doesn't justify what they are, does it? Holmes doesn't allow himself too much time to ponder on that thought, there is a case to solve, a criminal to be caught, and this relationship with Watson is far beyond him.

Holmes meets Watson half way between the hansom cab and the 'body', smiles at Lestrade and utters, "come along Watson, " and snatches the cab before it has a chance to make an escape. Watson gives Lestrade a rueful look, Lestrade just gapes, and Holmes just smiles. Watson strides up next to the detective, "there is nothing more of interest here, the real clues are where the rest of the body is," Holmes answers Watson's silent question.

"Right and I'm assuming you know where the rest of the body is located?" Watson asks, but really he already knows the answer to the question, but out of good humor asks it anyways.

"Most definitely," Holmes looks over at him and gives him a dashing smile, and climbs up into the cab; Watson follows and sidles up next to Holmes.

"Moriarty then," Watson turns to regard his friend, Holmes just shakes his head negative; his eyes looking out into the street, his mind buzzing with information, with clues, with his conclusions.

"Highly doubtful my dear Watson, but good guess, but a guess none the less." Holmes turns to stare back at Watson, an arrogant gleam glimmering from his eyes, Watson huffs in irritation.

Watson and Holmes pull up in front of Baker Street; Watson gives Holmes an inquisitive look. The detective shrugs his shoulders. "I have to process all the new information I have obtained before dashing about London, I have two theories, both could be correct," Holmes slides out of the cab mumbling all the way up to the door, and up the seventeen steps to the sitting room. Holmes grabs his pipe from the small side table next to his chair, and stuffs the pipe with his favorite tobacco, and with a flick of his wrist and the light of a match, smoke starts to lazy drift up from the lit pipe. Watson shuffles over to the detective's desk and pours himself a small glass of brandy; he needs something to calm him while being so close to his friend.

Both men sit in contemplative silence, Holmes running over his new case, and Watson running over the lines and angles that make up the detective's body, Watson can't help but think it's all shameful really; he would never ogle Mary like this, never. The doctor locks his gaze on the nimble fingers that are gently handling the pipe that rests in their dexterous grip, the way they can cause so much misery while in a fight, but can feel so heavenly floating over Watson's body. Watson gives a slight shudder, he berates himself for such self disparaging thought, they will do no good, especially with Holmes fixated on a case, they are just trivial.

Watson glances up to Holmes' face and sees that light sheen in his eyes, knows that he's far away in thought; Watson sits his glass down and stands. He walks over to the window, and peels open the curtains to let in the gloomy London sky, covered in clouds. He just stands and watches the people walking down Baker Street, he may not be able to deduce the strangers jobs, if they are cheating on their spouses by their coat tails, or if they have just left from an illegal business transaction by their gait, but he does enjoy just watching. His vision sticks to a couple walking down the street hand-in-hand, and watches the soft touches, the secret looks, and intimate whispered words between the two. A part of Watson feels anger towards the obviously happy couple; Watson wants the love they share, not this lustful macabre life that he feels trapped in.

His thought instantly come to a halt when the doctor feels warm air ghost over the back of his neck, his muscle tense, his blood thunders through his veins, and his mind reels. Holmes drops his head down on the crook of Watson's shoulder, his untamed hair, tickling the sensitive skin of the doctor's neck. Holmes carefully maneuvers his hands around to the front of Watson's coat, undoing the buttons one by one, and then playfully unbuttoning the tidy dress shirt underneath. Watson's body relaxes into the feather light touches, the trace of finger over his exposed abdomen, the gentle glide of fingers over his collarbone, then the soft caress of the fingers working their way back down to the hem of the doctor's trousers. Holmes lets his fingers skim over the skin right under the waistband of Watson's pants, eliciting a quite sigh from Watson.

"Holmes," Watson murmurs, "what about your case?" Holmes just gives a grunt against Watson's shoulder in reply, because his mind can multitask; and honestly, how can he think when Watson is so close, so willing?

Holmes lifts his head from Watson's shoulder and kisses the back of Watson's neck, right below his hair line, then gently bites the skin, making Watson jump slightly and moan; all thoughts of cases and dead bodies gone. Holmes lips curve into an arrogant smile, because he knows that he is the only one that can make _his_ Watson squirm like this, that he is the only one who can make Watson scream for him ,and oh how he love when he screams. Holmes rubs his obvious arousal against Watson's rear, dipping his hand into his doctor's trouser to grab hold of him, none to gently. Holmes pumps his hand along Watson's length, all Watson can do is flatten his hands against the window for support and moan out the detective's name. Watson can feel the familiar fire building in his groin, can feel his body heat building, can feel his legs begin to shake, and he just keeps pushing into Holmes hand for more

"Do you want to come my dear Watson, do you want to come _John_?" The doctor gives a breathy moan upon hearing his first name from Holmes' lips.

Watson knows he's close, he's so close, his hips pushing forward faster, harder, because he needs more. Holmes feels Watson's desperation, knows he's close, so he pulls his hand away, steps back and breaks all contact from his _dear_ doctor. Watson almost falls against the window, a low growl escaping from his throat; he turns on his friend, a snarl gracing his fine features. Holmes just smirks.

"Holmes, why did you stop? You can't just stop!" Watson all but screams in outrage, his appearance comical with an obvious tenting in his trousers, his face flushed, and his irate tantrum.

"Would you like me to continue?" Holmes' posture is confident and superior, and damn what that haughty look does to Watson's libido. Watson Just gives Holmes an incredulous look, as if the answer is positively elementary. "Well then my dear Watson, you must ask, nay, beg…nicely," and Watson's face falls into a mask of shock. He looks Holmes dead in the eyes and sees the seriousness reflected there, and Watson can only lean his back against the wall and gape, they have never played this game before. Holmes remains motionless, his cocky smirk still playing over his lips, patiently waiting for his answer, Watson straightens his back against the wall, and tries to regain some modicum of propriety back, but he's beyond that already.

"Holmes," Watson is slightly flustered by the uneven voice that issues from his throat, he clears his throat and tries again, "Holmes, you can't honestly expect me to beg, can you?" Holmes just raises his brow in question, and Watson's body sags again, he knows he's in a battle that he can't win. So Watson turns his gaze to the ground, "Holmes, please…please…touch me." Holmes' smirk becomes a full blown grin, teeth bared and eyes shining, if it wasn't for the smug edge to the raise of his lips, one would assume that he had received the world's most appealing Christmas present, in the middle of summer.

"I'm sorry Watson; I didn't quite catch that last statement. You were mumbling, you know how I hate when you mumble so," Watson brings his head up, sniffs his nose at Holmes, and repeats the words, and Holmes knows that he's just died, that this can't be real, but it is, and he's positively delighted.

Holmes saunters back over to his doctor and cups his face in between his hands and looks into those blazing blue depths. "Well, since you asked so nicely," Holmes chuckles, "how could I deny you?" Watson is pinned against the wall, use to his more submissive position, as it seems he is being shoved against walls on a more frequent basis now; but he plans to remedy that soon, maybe.

Holmes unfastens Watson's trousers and lets them fall around his thighs, and slowly starts his hand's tortuous glide down Watson's cock. Watson throws his head back against the ruff wood and lets a load moan issue from his throat, Holmes takes full advantage, nipping at the newly exposed skin of the doctor's neck. Watson bucks into the hand wrapped tightly around him, and looses himself to the sensation, his eyes close and all he can see is stars.

Watson comes with a violent jerk forward, grabbing hold of Holmes shoulders to help keep him stable, Holmes watches the way Watson's face contorts into sheer ecstasy, and revels in it. Holmes brings his hand away from Watson and licks away the fluid that coats the digits, Watson's eyes blown black, widen and his breathing once again quickens, and he surely can't help the breathy murmur of 'Sherlock' that escapes from between his parted lips. Holmes eyes are just as dark, just as delirious; sneaking his tongue out to run deliciously up and down along his long fingers, to stop and suck coquettishly at the tips. Watson is reduced to staring, and Holmes smirks in victory.

"Well now Watson, you can't have all the fun, I'm not privy to phrases of fancy, but I have heard that you should do unto others as you wish others to do unto you," Holmes eyes are endless black flames, and Watson can feel himself being devoured, "so, what say you?"

**TBC**


End file.
